Unobtrusive
by SakiSaki
Summary: Snitch’s foot is like any other foot, except it’s a foot that I’ve been acquainted with on a fairly regular basis. It’s the foot of a friend.


_Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies, or Itey, or Snitch. Disney owns all that. I do think, however, that Itey owns Snitch's foot. So Disney can stick that in their pipe and smoke it._

Most mornings, I wake up with a foot in my face.

Snitch's foot is like any other foot, except it's a foot that I've been acquainted with on a fairly regular basis. It's a foot whose details I've taken the time to notice and enjoy. It's the foot of a friend.

It's believed that we are all heavy sleepers, and most of us really are. Not me, though. Every morning the sound of Kloppman's walking stick clop-clop-clopping up the stairs is enough to wake me up, but I still keep my eyes shut. Why do I do this? I'm not really sure, but it's become a routine for me. I'll pretend to sleep, my hand lightly clutching Snitch's ankle or calf, and my cheek will become aware of that foot pressed comfortably against it, familiar with its texture, smell and shape.

The fact is I could probably sooner recognize Snitch by his feet than his face. Over the years, there are many noteworthy qualities of the foot I've observed. For example, its size, in relation to my head, is perfect: not small enough to routinely poke me in the eye, not big enough to smother my breathing. The toes are long and even, rather than jutting out at awkward angles, and the foot itself is curved just enough to contour to the shape of my jaw: a comfortable fit.

Because of the long days of walking in our worn-out boots, his feet ain't pretty. There are bits of sock lint clinging in between his toes, occasionally settling in my hair. Smudges of dirt evenly coat the surface, which I don't mind too much because it's the same for all of us. Some nights, however, I'll notice the bottoms are entirely stained black and I'll strongly object (much to the amusement of the others), ordering him to scrub them before he thinks about climbing that ladder.

The sole's texture varies depending on the strain of the day's business. At best, they're heavily callused on the heel and ball of the foot, making them a little rough against my skin, but the arch is still smooth. At worst, there's a war zone of splinters and blisters threatening to do some damage to my face. These are not altogether pleasant nights.

The toenails are usually kept in control. Sometimes a month will go by before we think to cut them, asking Kloppman for the hundredth time where he keeps the clippers (though they're always kept in the same drawer in the same place), the younger boys sometimes requiring assistance. While many of the bigger guys have thick, brittle toenails, chipped and overgrown, Snitch's are generally smooth and unobtrusive. Once I woke up with a long scratch on my face, and Snitch swore up and down that it wouldn't happen again. He was true to his word.

The smell took some getting used to in the beginning. They have the distinct aroma of the insides of boots: sweaty socks, cheap leather, a dash of shoe polish – y'know, not too bad. I don't dare to smell my own socks, so I'm grateful for the frequently inoffensive scent. In fact, I've often wondered what they smell like after a good morning's scrub. Not _that_ often, mind you. Just… sometimes.

I once commented to the others that I even had a favorite foot of his – the left one, because he had a tendency to kick with the right – which got a big laugh. It was a joke, so that was fine, but I've learned that even in the most absurd situations, there are factors you start to take seriously over time.

Snitch sucks his thumb in his sleep. He's been doing it since he first came to the lodging house, dirty and missing a shoe. We didn't have enough beds (some kids took to sleeping on and around the Greeley statue) so, being the same age and also fairly new to the place, I invited him to share my bunk. We didn't talk too much as he wasn't yet ready to discuss what had happened to him, and our seven year old brains couldn't think of much conversation outside of marbles and wooden swords. Even today he doesn't speak a whole lot, but it's okay. I do enough talking for the both of us.

The first year or so we slept with our heads beside each other, back-to-back. He took to sucking his thumb as a way to cope and comfort himself, but I don't think it did much for him other than make his teeth kinda stick out. No, I definitely think it was being a newsie that helped, as it did for all of us. Focusing on survival tends to get your mind off everything else, and eventually replaces the problems of your old life. And though we tease him about the thumb sucking now and again, we all have our defenses that get us through the day. Racetrack's deck of cards became an extension of his right hand; Spot had become master of the slingshot; Jack had developed a fixation with western culture; and I… well, I'm not exactly sure. I guess that sometimes it's easier to see through other people's habits over our own.

At any rate, as we got a little older we didn't fit in the bed as well with our shoulders crammed together, so I took my pillow to the opposite end and we settled with that arrangement. And since that moment, every night at some point he shifts in his sleep and his legs wind up sprawled over me. Funny that he's rarely - if ever - woken up with one of _my_ feet in _his_ face, but I guess I've got more control over my body. And the threat that one of my toes could end up in his mouth is also a factor.

A night or two a week we get our own bed, when Jack stays out until the morning or Boots gets stuck in Brooklyn. On a rare occasion one of the other guys will give us a break and offer to double up. And if one of us is sick, it's made sure that we're separated. But most of the time, it's the two of us, and if he doesn't mind then I don't.

So each morning, Kloppman will stomp up the stairs and good-naturedly yank us away from our dreams with a light slap and a loud, "Carry da bannah!" And I'll fake resistance, settling my face against Snitch's tired, friendly foot. But by the time Kloppman gets to our bunk and raps that cane on the bed frame, my eyes will flutter open and I will push it away brusquely, wiping my cheek with my hand.

"_Blech_," I'll say in disgust.

But I won't mean it.

_Author's Note: So I go from an M-rated fic to a K-rated fic, cuz dat's da way I roll. The next one will probably be somewhere in between. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this short, odd story. Explanation? I really like Itey but have virtually no reason why: I like that he's cute and a good dancer; I like his funny expression when David's being offered a "golden opportunity"; I like that he wears his cap backwards (especially when he spins it around during "Carrying the Banner" – blink and you'll miss it). In essence, he's a minor character with almost no canon development, so he's screaming for insight! And since there are very few Itey fics on here – and even fewer that aren't slash-focused – this just seemed right. Thoughts? Review!_


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